


a boy named henry

by honeymaren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Harry Potter Has Siblings, Harry Potter was Adopted by Other(s), Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Trans Female Character, but theyre still basically in medieval times bc theyre wizards, but this is gonna be wholesome(tm), i don't want to tag a lot right now bc i don't have a whole lot written, its modern bc i know nothing abt the 90s, petunia has regrets abt her sister
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeymaren/pseuds/honeymaren
Summary: harry potter is lost to a family that would hate him, but henry greengrass is found by one that will love him (includes sibling hijinks and Wholesome Family Moments)(hhhhh Hello Everyone i couldn't stop thinkin about what it'd be like if harry was raised by a neutral/dark family that arent the malfoys, but also who Change their side of the war bc they love their children V much)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	1. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petunia Dursley hated a lot of things; her sister’s new last name was just the newest thing on the list. Petunia would hate a lot of things about her nephew, but it was never him. She tries to repress the thought, but it floated up into her subconscious every few days: it was never her nephew that she hated. She wondered, constantly, if she could learn to love him, the way she loved her son, the way Lily would’ve loved Dudley if she ever left him in her care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo i made a tiny little edit for reasons that will be explained when i post the next chapter :) i doubt it'll even be noticeable though!

This isn’t how Petunia had envisioned her life going, especially not after hissing to her sister that _she never wanted to see her again_ . But there she was, staring down at a baby in a basket on her doorstep. It would be easy, she thought, to just close the door, wait for someone else to deal with this _development_. Someone had left a baby on her doorstep, they should be the ones to come pick it up. The letter next to the baby’s head had her name on it, though, in cursive writing that she recognized despite spending more than twenty years trying to repress those memories. The baby didn’t stir, even as she pulled the letter next to his delicate head. She tried not to think about the photos and letters her sister had sent, had tried not to imagine the terrible things that could have happened to her sister for her son to be on her doorstep. 

Petunia Dursley had not needed to open the letter to know her sister was dead. She read the letter anyway, pretending she had been leaning on the doorframe the whole time, rather than needing the support as her legs gave out. She had not thought of her sister in a few months, hadn’t considered what could have been happening in a different world than hers. She had not thought of her sister in months and this letter reminded her of everything that she had ever said. Petunia Dursley would never be able to apologize to her sister. She would not receive an invitation to their funeral. She didn’t know if she would have attended, but the choice was never hers. As she looked down at the baby, who now stared up at her with eyes that she had spent her life envying, she couldn’t help but feel sick to her stomach at the baby who never had a choice. She let the letter fall to the ground; maybe she or Vernon would pick it up later, but the words were burned into her memory, and she would remember the exact words used for the rest of her life. She picked him up from the basket, the weight similar to her own son’s, the weight her sister must have held for hours, never getting tired. She wondered if her sister had sung him the same lullabies that their mother had sung to them when they couldn’t sleep. Her son cried from inside the house and she tightened her arms, stepping back and closing the door.

Lily was dead and her son was in her arms. Her son was in her arms. Lily was _dead_ . Lily had just turned twenty-one years old when they had last spoken in person and now she was _dead._ Petunia felt a twisting from her stomach as she looked down at this _thing_ that had Lily’s eyes and had probably been the _thing_ that had her killed. She didn’t remember anything else, until her son cried out louder and she snapped out of her daze. Lily’s son stared up at her. She couldn’t think of anything to say to him. She would never know what to say.

Lily had fallen in love with magic, she had loved it more than anything else, and Petunia couldn’t blame her. There was something about the flowers that opened and closed that had curdled the blood inside her veins. It was a small thing, but there was danger in that magic. How long until Lily could make people move the way she wanted, twist them into whatever she wanted? How long until someone took all that pure magic and turned it into a weapon? Would it be Lily? Would it be someone close to Lily? Petunia was fourteen and the disgusting boy that was in love with Lily made a tree branch fall on her. How long would it be before it was the entire tree? Until he could twist her insides into a tangled mess and watch her choke on herself? Petunia was almost twenty-six and her sister was dead and she was still afraid of magic.

Petunia lasts a few days, under the glare of her husband as he takes in the baby. He lets the baby stay in the crib with Dudley, after she chokes out that it was her nephew. He never liked Lily, and he liked James Potter even less than she would ever. Petunia hated him for his casual use of magic, for the way the air around him seemed to spark with electricity, Lily becoming just like him. She hated James for giving Lily a reason to stay, for making her fall in love with more than just magic. She hated James for taking Lily away, with the promise of never giving her back. Vernon hated James for the dark tan on his skin, for the way he sometimes said something offhand in a different language, for the way he spoke about a culture that Vernon knew nothing about. She lasts only a few days before falling to her knees in front of the crib, her nephew staring at her with Lily’s eyes. Her husband and son were downstairs, but she spent most of her free time here, in front of the crib, watching Lily’s son blink at her. There were tears burning her eyes, and her body began shaking with sobs. She covered her mouth with both of her hands, afraid of what she would say if she allowed herself to speak. Would she curse Lily, for leaving her, and everything they had ever known, behind? Would she apologize to her sister, and tell her ghost how much she regretted not picking up the phone or sending back photos of Dudley? Would she scream at her nephew, blaming him for all that she had lost? Would she tell him that he had Lily’s eyes, but that he had the power to make them his own? She did not let herself speak, because there was nothing that could change, no matter what she said. Her sister would still be dead, and he would still be here. That night, she stared up at the ceiling, and in a quiet voice, told her sister’s ghost that she was sorry, sorry for all that they had lost together, sorry for all the wasted time they spent hating each other, sorry for all that would never be. Vernon woke up to his wife crying and tried to comfort her, but she assured him she’d be okay, and made her way to the boys. He followed her and watched his wife pick up their nephew. He swallowed down words about choosing him over their son, but Petunia had been through the wringer these past few days. She would come back to bed when she was feeling better. Petunia held her nephew and thought of the bedroom she had shared with her sister, thought of the memories she had tainted with her own bitterness.

Petunia Dursley hated a lot of things; her sister’s new last name was just the newest thing on the list. Petunia would hate a lot of things about her nephew, but it was never him. She tries to repress the thought, but it floated up into her subconscious every few days: it was never her nephew that she hated. She wondered, constantly, if she could learn to love him, the way she loved her son, the way Lily would’ve loved Dudley if she ever left him in her care.

It was a day like any other. Petunia Dursley woke up, got ready, went to the children’s shared bedroom, got them ready, and then made her way downstairs with two toddlers in her arms. The weight was becoming familiar, only a year after the death of her sister. Her husband gave her nephew the Morning Glare as she handed him a cup of coffee when he entered the kitchen. He hadn’t wanted to fork over money for the second high chair, so she carried her nephew while he fed their son. When Vernon began his lecture to Dudley over the table, his voice carrying into the entire house, Petunia spoke quietly to her nephew, her voice softer than it ever had been, lower than when Lily snuck into Petunia’s bed to have discussions that couldn’t wait until morning. Her nephew was the only person she spoke about Lily to; she figured he deserved to know about his mother. As she leaned over the counter, she told him that Lily liked her eggs over medium, because she didn’t like the taste of the yolk, but their mother insisted on both of the girls eating a plate of eggs and toast before school. She wondered if they could continue this, and in her mind, she could imagine her nephew sitting on the counter while she cooked, perhaps being reprimanded by Vernon for doing so, giving Dudley a fist bump as his cousin passed him to get to the fridge. She wondered if he would like cooking, the way Lily did, if he would like to garden, helping her in the summer to water her prized rosebush; she wondered if Dudley and her nephew would chase down the ice cream truck, if they would ask her to drive them to parties when they were older. She wondered if Vernon would ever learn to love him, if _she_ would ever be able to love him. She wondered if they could ever be happy like that, if at some point, a switch would flip and she could call him by his name, if he would ever be more than just Lily’s son.

She tells Vernon that she’ll be running errands today; their next door neighbor is busy, has a meeting out of town, so she has to take the children with her. He grumbles and sends a second glare at her nephew. She shifted him in her arms nervously as Vernon leaned in to kiss her cheek when he left. Dudley reached out and she picked him up, feeling strangely numb as she looked over her empty kitchen. She had never pictured her sister at her dining table, but she longed for it, for Lily drinking from a wine glass, James and Vernon having heated debates over politics as Lily mimicked the faces they were making over her glass, their children in the living room, watching cartoons. She could almost see it now, spending holidays with them, watching Vernon grumble thanks as he opened his presents from the Potters, giving her nephew boxes to present to his parents, serving hot chocolate to the boys when they came in from playing in the snow. Her nephew patted her face, bringing her back to reality. She blinked and looked down at the boys, shaking her head to clear the thoughts of a future she can never have.

There were times that her dreams clouded her thoughts, where she forgot the fear she held for the curse her sister called a blessing. There were moments where she forgot the way her sister had run away from her, away from everything Petunia was; she forgot everything she hated about Lily. She had prayed, every morning, that he wouldn’t have _it._ She prayed that he would never cause branches to fall on Dudley’s head, that he would never jump off the swings in an impossible way, that he would never go where they couldn’t follow, where she couldn’t follow. There were a lot of things that Petunia hated, a lot of things that she could learn to stop hating, maybe she could even learn to love many of them. She imagined herself loving this boy, tucking him in, helping him with his homework at the dining table, convincing Vernon to give him The Talk, taking him to his parents’ graves, laying petunias and lilies on Lily’s, telling stories about her sister as she poured a glass of wine, the one that she and Lily had gotten drunk on when they were young and stupid and brave enough to break into their parents’ liquor cabinent, over James’. She could imagine it, but as he reached out in the grocery store, a piece of candy that Dudley was crying over, floating inches from his little hand, it was all shattered. All the daydreams she’d ever had about their perfect family, who they could turn out to be, it was all over. She could never have that, of course she couldn’t. She was a fool to have had faith in a happy ending for them. Her stomach dropped and she remembered reading the letter informing her of her sister’s death. She had never given much thought to what she would do, what they would do if her nephew ever showed… signs… of having what Lily did, what James did. She thought of her destroyed relationship with her sister, and tried not to think of Dudley and her nephew. She remembered what it felt like when her sister had received an owl-delivered letter, while she had spent years pretending she didn’t care, staying up late one night to offer the owl a letter written on college ruled notebook paper. She hadn’t realized she had walked out of the store, until her hands began aching from gripping the steering wheel. She adjusted her mirror, trying to occupy her hands, but caught sight of her nephew, staring back at her, too calm for any _normal_ child. Dudley was fussing and waving around his toy, but her nephew simply stared at her. She turned in her seat and he blinked at her, Lily’s eyes, and she thought of Lily’s ghost watching over her, laughing at Petunia, mocking her for pushing Lily away, and having to raise her _cursed_ son. Petunia was screaming, tears burning her eyes, Lily’s laughter twisted and cruel in her ears, her face decomposing in her mind, but still laughing. She thought of what Vernon would say, what her neighbors would say, and her hysteria was audible over the screaming she used to hear in nightmares. She registered the fear in her nephew’s eyes, but her body was shaking as she sobbed, too much noise surrounding her, and in her head, and she shut her eyes, pulling on her hair, imagining Lily’s falling out as her body continued to rot in her head.

There was loud and rapid knocking on her window and she forced herself to open her eyes, her sobs still loud, but oxygen rushing to her head made her feel dizzy. A concerned shopper had heard her and worried for her and her child’s safety. She was taken to a hospital, her mind numbing as the tests were completed. When Vernon arrived, he was rushed to the children’s ward, and came to check in on her after. Dudley was fine, and he was eager to return to her arms, but Vernon had a strange look on his face. She mouthed a name when the doctors looked away, one she had never been able to say out loud, but he shook his head.

Petunia Dursley had lost her parents at twenty, her sister at twenty-six, and her nephew at twenty-eight. She had been to two of the funerals, not invited to one, and would never have one for the last, but she would mourn every loss, the weight of them drowning her for years.

* * *

_home, need to find, home, magic, need help, need to find home, need, home, home, home homehomehome_ **_homehomehomehomehome_ **

* * *

Jasper and Celeste Greengrass were trying to find their scheduled Portkey, discussing the changes in their government, their neutrality saving them from punishment, but only barely. It was difficult seeing all their friends and family go on trial, and even a year later, tensions were still running high in the upper social classes. The Malfoys had recently sent them an invite to a ball to celebrate also evading punishment, but they were hesitant to attend. Celeste casted a quick _tempus,_ and cursed, thinking of her children waiting up for them. Hopefully, their nanny would convince them to go to sleep, but their children were stubborn. Jasper muttered _point me_ , and changed their direction, pulling slightly as his wife laughed softly, squeezing his hand in hers as he led her. There was a change in the wind, and she slowed down, looking up at the sky. Her husband smiled at her, the wind ruffling her hair, but he felt a change. It reminded him of the first time he held his wand, the rush of magic in his bones. Before he could say anything, they heard a baby cry.

They followed the sound of the crying and found a toddler with eyes that didn’t remind them of anyone they knew.

* * *

_found found found magic home found magic found home_

* * *

Perhaps in another life, Petunia Dursley would have learned to love her nephew, would have raised him as if he was her own. Or perhaps he would end up in a cupboard, hidden away so she wouldn’t have to see her dead sister in his eyes. In this life, she would be haunted by his disappearance for many years. 

Perhaps in another life, the Greengrasses would only have two daughters, and raise them to carefully edge the line of dark and neutral, to evade the accusations, but stay safe from Unforgivables. In this life, they will name their middle child Henry, who they will read fairy tales to every night, including some of the Wizarding World’s savior, and their youngest daughter will be unable to say his name until she turns seven, only managing to say _harry._


	2. one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little about henry's new family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd we die like men

Celeste Greengrass is not Lily Potter, she is not Petunia Dursley, she is not Narcissa Malfoy, she is not Molly Weasley. She is Celeste Greengrass; she attends Narcissa Malfoy’s dinner parties, where her husband talks politics with Lucius while she gives Narcissa meaningful looks over her wine glass. She takes her children with her when she drops off her husband’s lunch at the Ministry, where they run around the lobby and make faces at the red headed children. She walks with them down Diagon Alley, gently pulling the hands of the mischievous ones, while her eldest hides laughter as little Astoria tried to drag her mother towards the toy shopping, where she recognized a blond boy.

Celeste Greengrass is not Lily Potter, she did not fight against the Dark Lord when he rose to power, she did not have to go into hiding, she did not spend nights talking to her husband about the war. Celeste Greengrass sat silently in fear when Narcissa told her in a too quiet alley that her husband had brought the Dark Lord into their house. Celeste Greengrass stared at the ceiling at night and pretended she didn’t scan her husband’s arms every night he came home from work a little later than usual. Celeste Greengrass is quiet, the perfect Pureblood housewife in public, carefully walking the line of gossip when she finds herself alone with another housewife. Serena Zabini doesn’t speak of the war; she would stay silent during the entirety of the war. Serena had already named her child. When her husband was murdered, the first and only man she would ever love, for openly opposing the Dark Lord, she had not shed tears over his death. She sobbed on Celeste’s shoulder after Narcissa had left, but when Death Eaters looked into her property, they did not see her mourning her dead husband, they saw her cold, empty gaze as she rocked her baby in the golden light of the sun. She did what needed to be done, for her and her son’s sake. Celeste had seen the same look in Narcissa’s eyes, the need to survive, to do what it takes. Celeste Greengrass stares at the ceiling at night and speaks to herself quietly, her voice drowned out by her husband’s snoring. It is the only time it is quiet enough to say what is on her mind.

“I am afraid.” Her voice is soft, and trembles. They are in a war and she is afraid. She wonders if she will ever not be afraid. Celeste Greengrass’ husband never takes the Dark Mark, but she crosses to the other side of Diagon Alley when Molly Weasley attempts to make eye contact. She wants to scream at Molly, as she is followed by her small hoard of children. The Weasleys are openly Light; don’t they realize how dangerous it is? Don’t they realize they’re painting a target on the small backs of their children? Molly Weasley has her own bump, but she is not afraid.  _ (oh how Celeste envies her) _

Celeste Greengrass is filled with fear, frozen in place as Narcissa Malfoy stumbles through her Floo. She has never seen her friend as anything but graceful. Narcissa Malfoy is sobbing in her arms, and she is cold, her pale skin prickled, her slender frame trembling. There was an attack, and Muggle children were caught in the crossfire between the Light and Dark.  _ They were children, Celeste, they were children.  _ Narcissa’s voice haunts her. She wishes for the war to be over, prays for it, her hands shaking. Celeste curled up next to her husband at night, their newborn child between them. She begs him, every morning, to not succumb. They both know it will not be his choice, if the Dark Lord asks. Lucius was  _ Crucio’ _ d in front of Narcissa and their son just a few nights ago. Jasper had not taken the Mark yet; he would not be so lucky.

  
  


The war is over. The Dark Lord is dead. Lucius Malfoy does not go to Azkaban. Celeste Greengrass is pregnant again. Life goes on.

There is a new society being formed, even if those at the top are still the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Narcissa Malfoy still invites her over for tea, but she only accepts when Lucius is at work. She brings her children with her, where her own and Narcissa’s son move on wobbly feet. Their children would be friends, for the first few years of their education at least. Thinking of her children’s future always made her reminisce her own childhood, of sitting primly in the Great Hall, giggling quietly while she hid her face with her textbook, waiting for letters from her parents. Thinking of her children’s future gave her hope, something she hadn’t felt since the beginning of the war. 

  
  


The world didn’t wait for Henry Greengrass to turn eleven before things began changing, shifting, twisting itself to form a new reality.

The Greengrasses took in an abandoned child, one who wouldn’t speak for a long time, getting their attention with gentle tugs on skirts and pant legs. They gave him a crib in their room, next to their bed, where their children tried to peer at him at night. They tucked in a silent boy, who slept through the night much better after their youngest handed him her favorite blanket.

The Wizarding World slept through the night. Harry Potter did not.

The Greengrasses woke up to another nightmare from their guest. Their children patted their faces, spoke in loud whispers directly into their ears, anything they could to help. They always tried to help the silent boy who smiled at them and sat through Astoria’s babbling and their eldest’s slow, but steady reading.

The Wizarding World celebrated  _ the Boy Who Lived.  _ Celeste Greengrass gently picked up a whimpering child, a lost child, and held him close, rubbing his back in small circles as his tears soaked into her nightgown.

The Wizarding World anticipates how they’ll spend their newfound peace. Celeste Greengrass gets her hair turned dark red, as the silent child finally speaks for the first time in the three months he’s been living with them, and cries out  _ mama. _

  
Celeste Greengrass does not react when she reads the baby’s blood test, does not blink for a long time as she reads his name. She is reassured that the information will not be released, that it will not leave the room, that Harry Potter will remain a mystery. The blood adoption is optional, but they insist on it. Her husband’s last name is not the only thing she wants to be passed down. She looks into his small eyes, everything about him is too small, even after a few weeks in their house. His eyes will change, they tell her. His hair will change too, the color of his skin will not change as much, he will never match the paleness of Astoria, not with Potter’s blood still in his veins, but she can think of ways to excuse the difference later. She thinks of him being led around by her oldest, the way his face opens up while Astoria babbles.  _ It’s worth it, _ she thinks. Blood magic is not something that she would like to pursue, but she would do this for him, to keep him safe. There is still danger, even after a year, and she will not have a child be in danger, not when the Dark Lord is gone, but his followers remain. She had seen Lucius Malfoy just outside their wards at the peak of the war, and she saw him last week while she sipped from her tea cup. There was still too much being changed, and she would protect what little was still in her control. His eyes lightened, and no longer resembled emeralds. They reminded her of her mother’s eyes, when she could still walk around the house Celeste grew up in. His hair was easier to run her fingers through, but it still stuck up in funny ways, no matter how many times she ran her enchanted comb through it. It was endearing, and she grew to love it, the same way she grew to love everything her children did. She ran his blood through the charms over and over again, and their names showed up everytime. She didn’t know where Harry Potter went, but he was gone. She would not allow him to live, when Henry Greengrass had just been born. It was not a life worth living, she convinced herself, if Lady Magic had sent him to them. If saving him meant having her blood run through his veins, then she would do it again and again, until he was protected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't know how to write it more explicitly because as someone who isn't nb or trans or anything that isn't cis, i cannot speak very well on that experience. but. astoria is trans. i'll get more into it later, but i don't rlly want to make it her entire personality or use her as a token non-cis character. we'll have more as we go. please let me know if there are any problems w what i said or how i can make it better. i'll do more research as for the next chapters. sorry for it literally being months since my last update. i rlly had a lot of this written already i didnt know so much of it was written! thanks past me! i hope the next chapter will be sooner but honestly. who knows. see u next year probably.


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